


These Days

by bibliosoph



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Cuddles, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, alex loves him so much, henry is a sad boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosoph/pseuds/bibliosoph
Summary: Alex just wants to know what's wrong.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 78
Kudos: 308





	1. Chapter 1

Henry stopped replying two hours ago. Logically, Alex knows that he could just be busy. He knows that Henry could be working in his study and just too focused on writing to pay attention to his phone. He knows that he could be napping with David which is good because he could really use some rest. He knows that Henry could be on the phone with Bea or Pez which is nice because he said he feels like he hasn’t spoken to them in forever. He could be at the shelter, even though he’s not supposed to be there today, which is good because he likes helping the kids and feeling like he’s doing something good with his life. Alex knows that any one of these is a possibility. These are logical conclusions. Just because Henry isn’t responding to him doesn’t mean that something’s wrong.

The thing is, also, that Alex knows, logically, that none of these are probably true. As much as he would love to believe that Henry is writing, he knows that his laptop has been untouched for days since the beginning of a new chapter always makes Henry stress out and overthink his words. As much as he would like to believe that Henry is napping, he knows that he won’t rest until he feels like he’s done positively everything he can for everyone else that day. As much as would like it if Henry was just on the phone with Bea or Pez, he knows that they haven’t called him recently or, if they have, that Henry doesn’t answer them. As nice as it would be to think of Henry taking his day off at the shelter, Alex knows he isn’t because Henry’s location shows that he’s at home. So, logically, something is wrong.

It’s happened before, of course. He knows this. Back when they were just two horny basically-teenagers with an ocean between them that seemed easy to cross for the sake of some ill-advised blowjobs, he knew that Henry got like this sometimes. Even if he wasn’t there to see it––even if there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it––he always knew. He could sense the dark, tumultuous waters rise up and swallow Henry whole. These dark moods of him…they’re part of him. Alex has vowed himself to be there for every single fucking part of Henry and this is just another piece to the never-ending puzzle of Henry that he’s trying to fit together in his mind. It’s an impossible task, really, but he doesn’t mind spending his whole life trying.

The thing is that Alex can actually do something about it now. He can leave his meetings, which he does, get on the train, which he did, and get his ass home. He’s home right now, actually. Staring at the door. It seems so much thicker than it did before. Heavier. The lights are off inside––he can tell by just looking in through the windows––and Henry is nowhere to be seen. Alex doesn’t really know what’s waiting for him behind the somehow massive door to their brownstone. He has no idea what to expect. Henry’s been overcome by these dark moods before, of course, but never like this. Never right there for Alex to see. It’s always been little stretches of silence and thousand-yard stares. Sometimes he’ll watch his dad’s movies and eat what is probably an unhealthy amount of Jaffa Cakes. Sometimes he’ll take David out for a walk and return hours later with a smile on his face and at least a hundred pictures of his dog doing silly things in the city. During these peculiar bouts, all Alex can do is try to make him smile. Usually, a laugh does it. As soon as Alex can get him to smile or laugh, it’s like Henry’s world snaps back into place and he returns from wherever his mind wanders to when he gets like this.

Today feels different, though. Worse. And Alex has absolutely no idea what to expect or do.

He opens the door and closes it behind himself as he steps into their home. It's quiet and eerie and all of the lights are off. It’s a grey day outside and raining buckets and buckets so the only thing he can hear is the sound of the rain thudding against the windows. He swallows a lump in his throat and decides that going upstairs is probably his best bet. Sometimes Henry likes to watch mindless television just to try to get himself to focus on something. He’s probably curled up in bed with some Jaffa Cakes and David.

“Henry?” he asks as he pushes the door open to their bedroom.

Well, it’s not what he expected.

Henry’s in the bed with David, yes, but there’s no tv on. It’s silent. He’s not even…he’s not even doing anything. He’s not writing or reading or talking or listening to music. He’s a lump under the blankets and David looks anxious and worried and instantly jumps off the bed and onto Alex as soon as he enters. He bends down to scratch him behind the ears as he looks nervously at the lump that is most certainly Henry under the blankets.

“Have you been taking care of him?” Alex asks David in his puppy-dog voice. “Have you been a good boy and looked after Henry today?”

He half-expects a chuckle from Henry for that. Maybe some feigned offense at the idea of a dog having to look after him. Instead, Henry says nothing. Henry does nothing. He doesn’t even move. Alex stands on shaky legs and creeps over to the bed. He bends himself over to get a good look at Henry’s face which is smushed against the pillow as he stares blankly ahead. His eyes are glossy and his face his red and wet and Alex feels his heart clench in his chest at the sight of it.

“You with me?” he asks him.

Henry says nothing.

Alex sighs and gets into the bed, trying to snuggle himself up against Henry and wrap his arms around him. Henry shuffles away and Alex tries not to be offended.

“No,” Henry tells him in a broken whisper, still facing away from him.

Alex’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. Henry’s never denied a cuddle before. Usually, he likes being held––likes having Alex’s body there to ground him. “Did––Did I do something wrong?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s definitely the wrong thing to say. He knows this from the way Henry’s body seems to stiffen and the way his breath hitches in his throat like he’s upset but doesn’t know what to say. Alex regrets it. He wants to take it back. He’s so stupid for thinking he did something wrong––for thinking that this is in any way his fault. This isn’t about him, obviously. This is about Henry and something that’s hurt him and Alex is only making it worse.

“It’s not you,” Henry whispers after a moment, still facing away from him. Alex wishes that Henry would just look at him. Know that he’s here. “It’s never you.”

Alex closes his eyes and tries to think about his words this time. “Did something happen? You know I’ll fight whoever or whatever hurt you.”

Again, it’s the wrong thing to say. He’s so fucking bad at this.

Henry sighs but remains facing the wall. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously _not_ nothing,” Alex says, hoping that’s good. “You’re upset and I want to help. Do you want to talk about it? Or I could go get you some Jaffa Cakes and we could watch some Bake-Off? I just want to help you, baby.”

Henry rolls over and faces him, keeping his head firmly against the pillow.

God, his eyes are so _sad_. They’re half-lidded and dull and he looks so miserable that it makes Alex want to cry. He wants so badly to help––he feels like it’s his life’s mission. He just doesn’t know what to do.

“I meant that there’s nothing you can fight,” Henry tells him.

Alex frowns. “Sweetheart, there’s always something I can fight. Especially for you.”

Henry refuses to make eye-contact with him, instead choosing to fiddle with the tips of the pillowcase. “It’s me,” he says, like that makes sense somehow. “I’m the problem.”

Alex’s world feels like its spinning off its axis. He’s at a loss for words. How can Henry possibly think that he’s the problem? He’s never the problem. Henry is amazing. He’s so passionate and beautiful and kind and good and the thought that he might, in literally any situation, be the problem is, frankly, the most ridiculous thing that Alex has ever heard. But Henry’s tired, red eyes seem to think that this is true. Alex has no idea how to make this better––how to show Henry how wonderful and precious he is. How he’s made so many lives better. How he brightens every room he walks into. So Alex wraps his arms around him and pulls him close to his chest. Henry doesn’t fight him this time. He lets himself be held.

Alex nuzzles his face into Henry’s hair. “Baby,” he says. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or why you feel like this?”

Henry says something incoherent against his shoulder.

“I didn’t get that. Look, I want to talk about this if that’s okay with you, okay? I’ll keep holding you but I can’t hear you when you’re pressed against my shoulder like that.”

They shift awkwardly until they’re facing each other and Alex’s arms are around Henry’s waist, holding him steady there.

Henry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “It’s––I know it’s nothing. And I know I’m being ridiculous––“

“You’re not,” Alex tells him with one hundred percent certainty. “I don’t know what’s wrong but you’re not ridiculous.”

Henry smiles weakly which feels like a win. Alex smiles softly back and rubs small circles with his thumb onto Henry’s hip.

“Things happen sometimes,” Henry explains, “small, seemingly insignificant things. I ruin the washing or I muck up a chapter or I forget to feed David on time. And these small things, while seemingly ridiculous, latch themselves into my brain. They’re like parasites, these moments. They feed on everything else until all that’s left is this overwhelming thought that I am not enough in any capacity. Or, sometimes, if I get to excited about something, it’s that I’m too much. Too much, too little…too _something_ but never just enough. Never just right.” He takes a deep breath. “And then I think of you and mum and everyone else in my life that cares for me and I just…I feel wretched. I feel inadequate. I want, somehow, to let you know that I’m not enough. To make you see that.”

He stops talking and looks down, his eyes getting all watery again. Alex tilts his chin up and presses a gentle kiss there. “I…I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing I can say to help you. I love you so much, each and every part of you, and I wish you could understand that you’re literally the best person I’ve ever met, but…Henry, what if our roles were reversed right now?”

Henry looks at him skeptically. “What, if you were having a breakdown due to the fact that you are incapable of brewing a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” Alex says. He shakes his head. “I mean, no. Is that––never mind. I mean what would you do if I told you everything you just told me? If I said I was inadequate and that I feel like you shouldn’t be with me? That I’m not good enough for anyone to love or care about?”

Henry thinks about it for a moment. “I would say that you’re wrong,” he decides. “That––oh.”

Alex smiles softly and kisses his forehead. “I’m not saying you have to love yourself. It’s…hard. We all have moments where we feel like we’re not enough––that’s human. I just…I wish that I could help you not feel like this all the time. Is there…I want to write you, like, hundreds of lists of why you’re enough. Why you’re amazing and perfect and beautiful. Would that even help, though?”

Henry thinks about it for a moment and shakes his head. “It’s a nice thought,” he says, “but I wouldn’t believe a single word.”

Alex sighs and pulls Henry closer, cradling him in his arms like the precious human he is. Like his arms will somehow protect Henry from himself. He knows that there’s nothing he can really do but hold Henry in his arms and whisper compliments and praise in his ear, even if Henry doesn’t really believe him. He knows that telling Henry that he’s beautiful and strong and kind won’t somehow make any of this better, but he wants him to at least hear him. He’ll write him notes, he decides. Notes for Henry to read when he’s feeling like this with words of encouragement and lists and love. He’ll try everything he can to help Henry understand that he is good and enough. That he doesn’t have to be perfect––not here, not with Alex.

For now, though, he’ll hold Henry tight against his chest, run his fingers through his hair, and remind him of who he is. Then, tomorrow, they’ll get up together and Alex will devote every waking minute to showing him how much he loves him, even if it takes a while for it to sink in.


	2. The Coffee Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the prequel to the first part. It doesn't have a happy ending because this is what happens before Alex comes home. There's nothing graphic, but there's the heavy theme of depression. 
> 
> But we all know it turns out okay because Alex comes home and they talk and cuddle!

It started with the coffee maker.

The fucking coffee maker: the evilest, vilest creature he’s ever encountered.

Alex was the one that set this thing up for them because Henry said he much preferred espresso to American black coffee. It was a silly side-comment he made a few days ago and then, yesterday afternoon, the machine showed up. Alex had smiled and set it up and showed him that not only does it make espresso, but it heats water for, say, a cup of tea. Henry had kissed him senseless after that, for having such a big heart and wonderful ideas. It was one of those stupid, domestic moments that he tucked away to hold onto forever––to pull out on a rainy day and smile about.

So the coffee maker _seemed_ like a good idea. And this morning, when Henry tried to use it, he was using it only for the water function. As far as he was aware, there were no beans even in the contraption. Somehow, though, beans spewed and rained holy hell on the counter. There were beans _everywhere_. And Henry stared at it for a moment, at this wonderful contraption that his boyfriend had so lovingly purchased for them, and slammed his cup down on the counter. A few minutes of struggle and button-smashing later, not only were there beans all over the place, but there was also _water_. Brown, cold water. Not hot water. Not clear water. Sludge.

That’s when Henry gave up.

He stared at the damned thing for a moment and sobbed uncontrollably before falling to the ground with his knees tucked in and his hands balled into angry fists that tugged at his hair. He’s still sitting here, three minutes later, with angry tears and red cheeks.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

God, he’s a _Prince of Wales_. He is literally a figurehead of a nation and he can’t make a cup of hot water.

And…it really shouldn’t be such a big deal. It shouldn’t elicit such a response from him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that this is stupid. He wants to slap some sense back into himself, but the thing is that he _can’t_. It’s like one of those emotions he can’t stop feeling over and over again until it grows so big that it drowns him completely. The whole thing is a loop in his mind and it’s driving him mad.

 _“We don’t cry over things that don’t cry over us,”_ Philip would say.

Well, _fuck_ Philip.

He doesn’t _want_ to cry about the bloody coffee maker. He doesn’t _want_ to be rendered useless on the floor. He doesn’t want any of this.

His phone rings in his pocket, snapping him out of reality for only a moment. He looks down at it and sees that it’s Bea calling. It should make him happy to see her name on there––to see that she cares enough to stop whatever she’s doing and check in with him. It should make him feel loved and happy. It doesn’t. It makes him feel like she can sense what kind of state he’s in––like she knows exactly what’s going on and is calling to try to make him feel better. As he’s learned, nothing can make him feel better during a time like this. Words of encouragement might as well be some alien language. Ideas for things to do to take his mind off things are somehow the greatest offense.

 _“Well, if you just worked out, you’d be happier. It releases endorphins, you know,”_ Philip would tell him.

Henry knows that it’s true to some extent. Sometimes, when he feels the things start to creep up on him, playing polo is just what he needs. But working out does no good when he can’t even bring himself to move off the bloody floor of the kitchen. He can’t go for a run if his limbs have turned to stone.

So he’ll continue to sit here, he supposes. Until his body lets him move.

While he’s here, he may as well try to figure out exactly where he went wrong with the coffee maker.

It’s not even the coffee maker though, is it? It’s his entire fucking _life_. It’s allowing the Queen to keep him sequestered and parceled off from parts of himself that he longed to access and explore. But it’s not really her fault, is it? It’s _his_ fault. He was the one that allowed it––she didn’t hold a gun to his head. It was his choice to allow himself to be kept locked away in an impenetrable fortress. It’s his fault that his mind works this way and that this is how he reacts to things as silly as devilish coffee makers. How does anyone put up with him? He can’t even stand himself.

Oh, God.

Another buzz.

It’s Alex this time.

A text message.

He wants to know what Henry’s doing with his day off––if he needs Alex to bring anything home.

 _Why do you love me?_ He wants to ask. _Why do you stay with me when you know how I am? How do you manage to go a day without walking out the door?_

If he texted him these things, Alex would surely call him. He would certainly try to talk him off this cliff he’s teetering off of. It sounds so nice in theory. Being showered in compliments should really be the solution––being told he’s enough and he’s good should be all he needs to snap back in place.

Every word would be a lie though. He knows as much. Alex would tell him he’s beautiful––which he’s not. Alex would tell him that he’s strong––Henry is the weakest human on the planet. Alex would write lists and lists of everything he loves about Henry if he asked him to, but what good would a list of lies be? Henry knows the truth and the truth is that there’s no purpose for him on this earth. No matter how many shelters he opens or how many books he writes, nothing will ever be enough. It won’t be an accomplishment that he can hold onto and be proud of forever. It won’t take away even a fraction of what he’s feeling right now.

His hands hover over the keyboard. He thinks that just blocking everyone might get him some peace and quiet for a while.

Another text message.

It’s Bea.

She wants to know if he’s okay. She wants to know why he hasn’t picked up her calls. Why he hasn’t texted her back.

The fact that she cares should make him happy. It should make him text her back and explain what’s going on in his mind.

It doesn’t.

Instead, a rock of guilt settles in his stomach and throat. It fills him up until he can’t even think anymore. His behavior makes people worry. The way he is drives people away. It makes people worry. He’s not worth their worry, though. Don’t they see that? Don’t they understand that he’s not human enough? That he’s too little or too much of something else? Something bad? He should have a warning sign. No one should be allowed within five feet of him. No one should be allowed to––

Here it is.

Everything’s shut off now.

His body is tingling.

It’s…better this way. To be numb. To have transcended that plane of sorrow. Maybe here, where he feels like nothing, no one will be able to reach him. Maybe they’ll all forget about him. Maybe he’ll just disappear forever. Wouldn’t that be for the best? To be a spectator instead of a player?

He doesn’t even register walking upstairs and falling into bed. Or David coming in and looking nervously at Henry like he’s some sort of bomb.

He is, though, isn’t he?

A bomb.

Is this going off or going out?


	3. Let's Talk About Your Mental Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so basically Henry has some sort of non-specific incident that leaves Alex worried. Alex gets him to the hospital but Henry is babbling and crying and says he doesn't need any help, so they restrain him and give him a sedative to help him calm down. When he wakes up, he doesn't remember what happened and Alex fills him in and helps him see that he's not alone and that there are people that will help him talk about something the Crown has never let him talk about: his mental health. 
> 
> Happy ending, obviously.

There’s sunlight streaming through the window––too bright for however early in the morning it is right now. Henry goes to move his arms over his eyes to block out the vicious light, but his arms won’t budge. His eyes snap open then shut again because the light is practically blinding, but he gets his vision back (for the most part) after a minute of blinking. It’s a white room which is probably why it felt so bright. There’s a window to his right letting a sunny day in New York into the room, but it’s not his window and this isn’t his room. This might not even be anyone’s room at all. Based on the weird, cheap-looking picture of a watering can full of plants, he guesses that it’s some impersonal room that hundreds of people filter through. And it smells clean––too clean. Like bleach.

Something’s beeping to his left so he looks over and sees what looks and sounds like a heart rate monitor there. There’s an IV drip, too, that he follows to the back of his hand. His hands are cuffed in some sort of white material that wraps around his wrists and tie into the bed somewhere. His feet, it feels like, are in the same boat. He tries to sit up but he can’t fucking move and there’s no one in here to help him. Where’s Alex? What happened? Why is he here and why is he in restraints? He feels his breathing go shallow and rapid like he can’t get air. He has no idea what’s happening and he’s terrified and alone and where is Alex?

The door opens and, like he somehow conjured him with his mind, Alex is standing there with a cup of coffee in one hand and cup of water in the other. He looks sad––teary-eyed, puffy-faced, downturned lips.

“Alex?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

Alex’s head instantly snaps up and looks at him. His lips turn into a slight, sympathetic smile as he moves over to the seat by Henry’s bed, setting the drinks down on the small table and taking one of Henry’s hands in his own. “You really awake this time?”

Henry furrows his brow, completely baffled. He doesn’t remember any other times. “I think so,” he says.

Alex strokes the back of Henry’s hand with the pad of his thumb. Gently––like Henry might break. “You were out for a while. I’m glad you’re back, though.”

Henry shakes his head because he still has no idea what’s going on. He doesn’t feel like he was in an accident of some kind––he doesn’t feel any physical pain. He’s got a headache, but it feels more like from his brain going into overdrive than from some sort of external damage. Also, an accident wouldn’t warrant the use of these restraints. That’s probably the most troubling part about all of this. “What happened?”

Alex sighs and leans down to kiss Henry’s knuckles. “There was a bit of an incident,” Alex explains. “You don’t remember?”

Henry shakes his head.

“Why am I here? Why am I in restraints? Alex, what’s going on?”

“Shh,” Alex coos, using his other hand to push some of the hair off of Henry’s forehead. “I’ll explain everything, okay?”

Henry nods, silently agreeing to stay quiet as Alex explains what’s going on.

“When I got home last night, I couldn’t find you for a while,” Alex begins. His voice is thick with emotions and, for a moment, Henry almost wants to tell him to stop talking if it hurts him so much, but Henry needs to know what’s going on. “I found you out on the balcony and I don’t know if you had been drinking or what was going on, but you clearly weren’t yourself. You were saying all kinds of things––worrisome things. It––it scared me to see you like that, you know? You were crying and on this long tangent about your work and the world and all of this stuff and then you just sort of…collapsed. Into my arms.” Alex pauses and wipes at his eyes. “I called Shaan because I thought he might know what to do. Like maybe this was something that had happened before? Anyway, we brought you here to see what was going on. The restraints were more of a precaution than anything because…you were pretty worked up. When you came to, you kept crying and trying to leave and you kept saying you were fine but…”

Henry squeezes his hand. He doesn’t remember a single moment of this, but he believes Alex with all his heart. He knows that he’s the kind of person to be reluctant to accept help, even when he needs it, so it makes a sort of sense to him. He doesn’t think he was drinking, though. Or, at least, he doesn’t recall drinking. Maybe he was drinking, though? Maybe that would explain the headache?

“Do they know what happened?”

Alex shrugs. “They have theories, I guess. They didn’t find alcohol in your system, though. They think it might have been some combination of dehydration and exhaustion. I had to tell them that you hadn’t been sleeping much recently and about how you feel sometimes.”

Henry nods and tries to process this. It seems possible that the way his mind is contributed to this little incident, at least partially. He’s had a few experiences with this sort of thing before––times where he isn’t sleeping or drinking enough water and his thoughts just get louder and louder until he doesn’t even remember anything but what he’s shouting at himself inside. It’s like he’s hearing himself scream over and over again but no one ever hears him––no one’s there to help him. He’s never really seen it as an issue before, though. Everyone he’s known has periods where they’re not themselves. And he’s sure he could remember what happened if he wasn’t feeling so drowsy from what was most likely a sedative.

“You okay?” Alex asks. Alex scoffs at himself and shakes his head. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. I mean, obviously you’re not okay. It’s just…what can I do? Besides get you out of here?”

Henry stares at him for a moment, so overwhelmed with love for him that he can hardly stand it. “I don’t know,” he tells him honestly.

Alex nods thoughtfully and thinks about it for a moment. “Can I make a suggestion that you totally don’t have to listen to?”

Henry nods.

“I think you should see someone.”

“I’ve got a therapist an––”

“No. I mean, I’m sure that’s good, too, but I mean, like, someone that can get you help. A diagnosis, maybe? Medication?”

It’s not something he’s ever talked about. Mental health. His family very pointedly ignores and sidesteps all conversations about it because, well, he’s a prince, right? He’s not supposed to be sick. But he’s not really sick, is he? Not in the way the Queen and Philip might see it. He’s struggling––he knows he’s struggling. And medicine or at least some sort of plan on how to deal with it will probably help him. When he thinks about it, it seems silly that he hasn’t thought of it before. It’s something he should have done as soon as he came to New York and didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to go to a doctor.

When he’s discharged from the hospital, they get a referral for someone he can go meet with and talk to about how his brain works and the thoughts that sometimes drown him. Alex goes with him, of course, but waits outside with Shaan while Henry steps into the office. It’s a nice place––very private and cozy. Not half as clinical as he thought it would be. The doctor––Dr. Sanders––smiles at him warmly when he comes in and gestures for him to sit in an oversized armchair across from her.

“I have to admit,” Henry chuckles as he sits down, “I think my boyfriend will be offended that there isn’t a sofa or a chaise lounge or something in here.”

Dr. Sanders smiles at him and writes something down. “Your boyfriend might watch too many soap operas.”

“I’ll have to have a word with him about that, won’t I?”

She smiles again and offers her hand to him. “I’m Doctor Sanders,” she says as he shakes her hand. “Are you ready to begin?”

It’s only an hour-long and it’s mostly just Henry explaining how he feels and the various coping strategies he’s used in the past that don’t seem to work all that well. By the end of it, he’s holding his breath while she smiles at him and starts to tell him her thoughts and next steps they can take.

Depression.

It’s the first time someone’s said it aloud to him.

She explains what this means both in general and for him as an individual. It’s oddly comforting to hear someone talk to him about this sort of thing so openly. Alex has done a wonderful job as being as supportive and understanding as possible, but it’s not really the same. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s not a word that Henry can hold onto and repeat and know why he is the way he is. And the doctor explains that, from the sounds of it, it’s something he’s been dealing with for a while. At least since his dad died. And maybe it’s silly, but he feels like there’s a weight being lifted off his chest when she talks him through different possibilities for medications and coping strategies.

When he leaves her cozy office, he has a slip of paper in one hand and a smile on his face. Alex stands as soon as Henry reenters the waiting room and wraps him up in a massive hug.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” Alex tells him into the crook of his neck. “You’re so brave.”

Henry kisses his cheek and shows him the paper. “There’s a _word_ ,” he says with a smile.

Alex––still smiling––tilts his head. “A word for what?”

“For me,” Henry tells him. “For what I am––for how my brain works. I––Alex, I have depression.”

“And that makes you happy?” Alex asks. There’s no malice or judgment in his voice––just baffled curiosity.

Henry nods and kisses him. “Very.”

Alex makes Shaan stop on the way home so they can get the prescription filled. And Here knows that it’s going to be a long journey of finding the right medication and that there are some rough patches in front of him, but he’s got Alex’s hand in his own and a word he can use to describe the swirl of emotions that have been churning inside of him for so long now.

_Depression._

Christ, it just feels so wonderful to know that he’s not alone––that this diagnosis puts him in a never-ending group of people who are just like him. It fills him with hope to know that there are people he can talk to about this––people that will understand his occasional bouts of melancholy and non-responsiveness. Even though he knows that Philip and his gran would never approve, he doesn’t even care.

He’s Henry, the Prince of Wales, and he has depression.

And he’s going to make damn sure that he uses that to help other people like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't know much about hospitals so like sorry!! :o
> 
> I know for a lot of people that diagnosis can be really heartbreaking, but for me (since my family won't let me get that kind of help) I see it as something that makes Henry feel like he's not alone––that he's got a word for the way he feels and a reason and a whole community of people out there that will understand. And while I, struggling with my own depression, understand how lonely it can be, I also think it's wonderful that the stigma is going away more and more with each passing year and that more and more people are getting treatment and talking about mental health. It's not a skeleton in the closet––it's something that can unite us and help us understand both each other and ourselves. 
> 
> As always, I'm @bibliothesoph on Tumblr. Always here to talk to anyone who needs a friend or just someone to listen to them! <3 You're not alone, guys.


	4. The Group Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry hits a rough patch. 
> 
> This is a sad thought ramble for the most part. No actions, no real life-ending thoughts. Just him thinking about life and the world and people and what he wants and needs. 
> 
> The fifth paragraph might be something you want to skip because I see it as potentially very triggering to some people who have struggled with depression and dark thoughts. It's about suicide but only about how he doesn't see it as something to even consider for himself. But if you find that triggering, you're valid and please skip it or this entire chapter if that gives you qualms. 
> 
> If you've been on this journey thus far, I hope you know that this fic is not, by any means, sunshine and rainbows. But that's okay because you gotta get through the storm first for the rainbow, anyway. And it makes that rainbow so much more beautiful. (Was that too cheesy? Don't care, it's true and I love all of you and you'll survive your storms)
> 
> Whatever you decide, you're valid and I love you and want to remind you that you are strong and beautiful and brave.

It’s been a few weeks with the medication and, up until tonight, Henry thought he was doing well. He thought it was starting to be okay again, like, truly okay. Okay enough that he didn’t have to worry Alex or anyone anymore. And it was such a good feeling for him––it made him feel like he could fucking fly. He felt weightless and untethered. It was easier to breathe.

But now he feels like he’s right back where he started except, maybe, worse.

He was so young when he found out that the whole world knew who he was and, even at the time, he wasn’t sure he wanted that. He was too young to understand all of the implications of it, of what it meant not only to be a prince, but to be _alive_. When he thinks back on that, he thinks that maybe it wasn’t just the royal life that made him feel the way he did. He thinks it might have been life itself. The whole concept of it––always fighting, always going uphill, always looking to be happy but never quite finding it.

He’s sitting on the sofa with David curled up next to him, staring blankly ahead. The television might be on. He doesn’t really know. All he knows is that he can’t stop fucking thinking. It’s like his mind is screaming at him, like it’s just replaying every single terrible decision he’s made in his entire life like any of it really matters in this moment.

He doesn’t want to kill himself––that’s not what this is. That’s something that he's never really considered, no matter how bad things get. He knows something like that would break every member of his family in different ways, Pez and Alex, too. So it’s locked away in a box in a vault somewhere, untouched. And that’s not what this, anyway. Because for death to exist, life has to exist. And that’s the problem.

People always ask what kind of superpower you would want: invisibility or the ability to read minds? Most people choose reading minds because they want to know what people think about them––it’s a selfish sort of thing. Maybe they justify it and say it would be easier to fight crime if you knew exactly what your villain was thinking and what their next move was. But what if you’re your own villain? What if you’re constantly locked in a never-ending battle with yourself? What use do you have for mind-reading then if you’re already trapped inside your own head? So, Henry wouldn’t choose reading minds. He’d choose invisibility. Not even just invisibility––the ability to disappear. To vanish into some other time or place where things don’t exist and he can just be a thoughtless shell in space.

Like always, the thing that set him off was something so stupid and trivial that, to someone else, the thought that it has him in such a state would surely be laughable. And it is, he thinks, in a way. Because it’s probably been the most selfish thing he’s ever thought, apart from thinking about Alex back in the day.

It’s the group chat. It’s always a group chat, isn’t it? And, logically, he supposes, it should be fine. There are six people in it and everyone knows that the only time you run into trouble is with an odd number. Three can be problematic because, inevitably, two people get closer and split off from the third. So with six of them, it shouldn’t be a problem. If there’s any pairing off, it should be even. Three groups of two. But, for some reason, that’s not how it’s gone at all. It’s two groups––five and one. Henry’s the one.

He texted something stupid in reply to some meme that Nora sent. Everyone had been saying the same sort of thing in response to it, so he didn’t see an issue with chiming in. But then, as soon as he did, the chat went dead. No one said a word. And that was two days ago. And that was two days ago on a group chat that literally makes him feel like his phone is going to explode with the amount of notifications he gets from it every day. And it shouldn’t reduce him to this, but it does.

It makes him feel like no one cares about him. Which, honestly, is something he’s felt for a majority of his life. Or maybe people care, to some degree, but only out of obligation or because it suits their needs at the given time. And Henry knows that he’s difficult and hard to deal with, but surely someone should be up for the task, right? Alex, maybe? Hopefully? He thought?

But Alex isn’t here right now and Henry is alone and miserable. And he just wants to find someone, anyone, that understands how he feels. He needs someone to hear him say that no, he doesn’t want to die, but wouldn’t it be nice to just be nothing for a little while? And he needs them to hear that and nod and tell him that he’s not selfish for thinking that and, in fact, they feel that way sometimes, too. Maybe they’ll give him a hug and tell him everything will be okay, even if he feels like that sometimes. Maybe they’ll make him a hot chocolate and talk about life and what it really means to be a person on this earth. Maybe that person should be Alex. Maybe Henry is holding him to too high a standard.

He must fall asleep or something because he wakes up and he’s in his bed and there’s someone next to him. Someone on their phone and shirtless. He squints and sees Alex beside him which is weird because he was supposed to be out of town. A conference or something. Meetings, maybe.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Alex says, kissing him softly.

“Why are you here?”

Alex frowns and sets his phone down, moving so he’s facing Henry on the bed, his head squished into the pillow. “Because you didn’t pick up your phone last night. I must have called you a dozen times. And Shaan checked in to make sure you were okay and you were asleep and it was only five. So I thought you might have wanted me here.”

Henry sighs and looks away from him, turning over. “Of course,” he mumbles. Of course Alex came because he thought Henry would want him here. Of course he’s only here because he thought it was what Henry wanted him to do. He probably thought it was some sort of cry for attention. He probably swore under his breath and grumbled to June or Nora about his stupid, needy boyfriend who couldn’t be left alone for two fucking days without having a breakdown.

“What’s that mean?”

“You came because you thought I wanted you here? Really?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I know you said you wanted me to go, but I was worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Henry whispers.

Alex is silent for a moment behind him. “Baby, I’m always gonna worry about you. You’re my boyfriend and I love you. You don’t mean that.”

“Haven’t you had enough?” Henry asks. “Aren’t you tired of this?”

Alex’s arms come up around him and Henry doesn’t fight it. “Of you? Never. I love you, H, no matter what’s going on with you. Even if you push me away, I’ll come running back to you. Don’t you know that by now?”

“I wish you didn’t.”

“You don’t mean that,” Alex says in a broken whisper behind him.

“I might.”

Alex doesn’t say anything for a minute and, for that horrifying stretch of time, Henry thinks he’s succeeded in pushing him away completely. But then there’s a kiss being pressed to his bare shoulder and Alex’s grip tightens around him. “You don’t get to tell me that I shouldn’t stay,” Alex says. “I love you and I want you and I’m not giving up on you, okay? Ever. Even if you push me away and build all of your walls back up. I’m gonna knock ‘em down one by one, baby. I’m always gonna find you and hold you and kiss you and love you because you are the most important person in my life without question. If you want time or space, I’ll give it to you. If you want me here, I’ll be here. But I’m not leaving you because I know that, even when you feel like this, you still love me. And you know, deep down, that I love you, too, even if your mind doesn’t want you to believe it.”

Henry turns to face him as his eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry,” he says as he pushes his head into Alex’s chest.

“Don’t apologize, okay? I just want you to be happy, sweetheart. That’s all I want. Just tell me what you need, okay?”

Henry nods and rubs at his eyes. “I think…I think I need to talk to my doctor about my medication.”

Alex rubs circles onto his back. “Yeah, okay, we can do that. I can call her right now if you want.”

“Not right now,” Henry tells him, burying his back into Alex’s chest. “I just want you to hold me for a while if that’s okay.”

Alex presses a kiss into his hair. “That’s my favorite thing to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been allowed to be on medication, but I know that it takes time to find the right one, so I'm sorry if this isn't super accurate. Also, if you haven't been able to tell, this really has just morphed into me putting my own feelings in here and applying them to Henry's character and circumstances. 
> 
> If you're struggling, know that I'm here for you and that you are strong and brave and beautiful inside and out. 
> 
> If you ever want to talk, I'm @bibliothesoph on Tumblr. If you talk, I will listen. I promise. <3


	5. Let's Talk About Alex

People talk about Henry a lot. Their friends and family all ask how Henry’s doing and if he needs anything––good and no, but thank you for offering. And Alex is happy that conversations like that can just _happen_ now. He’s beyond pleased to see everyone––even Philip––reaching out to check in with Henry and make sure he’s doing okay. And Henry is better than he was, Alex thinks. Therapy, _Bake Off_ , Jaffa Cakes, medication, and cuddles are a pretty rock-solid combination to get him through everything he’s unpacking and working through right now. And, honestly, Alex is more than happy to spend evenings on the sofa with his boyfriend and talk about what’s going on with him mentally or to just cuddle and watch tv. He is. He’s fine. And Henry deserves to be talked about and given the time and space to talk to everyone about his emotions that he’s been keeping bottled up for so long. And Alex is fine. He’s happy. 

Except for the fact that he’s not. 

How is he supposed to tell his recently diagnosed boyfriend that he feels like he’s falling apart? Henry has so much on his plate already and Alex would rather die than add to it. Because Henry’s finally working through and talking about how his entire family kept him very brutally in the closet for so long. And he’s working through his grief for his dad and also his mom for those years that she wasn’t around. And he’s a beautiful, gorgeous, work in progress. And Alex doesn’t want him to feel like his feelings aren’t valid or that Alex is trying to make it some sort of misery competition. Because Henry’s had to go live through and go through so fucking _much_ and, honestly, the least Alex can do for him is sit and listen to him talk about everything he feels and be a shoulder to cry on when necessary. And it’s good––it’s fine. Alex is fine with that.

Except for the fact that he’s falling apart.

How is he supposed to tell his boyfriend––a man who has been through every layer of hell that this world has to offer––that he’s constantly on the verge of some sort of anxiety-provoked breakdown? That he’s got feelings, too, and they’re loud and aggressive and screaming at him all the time? How the fuck is he supposed to start that conversation? How is he supposed to just sit down and tell Henry that, most days, he feels like pulling his own hair out or melting into the floor? 

He can’t.

So he doesn’t. 

Instead of talking to Henry about it, he finds other ways to try and make everything just shut up for a while. He doesn’t sleep––he works on his phone once Henry is passed out. He doesn’t eat––he just moves stuff around on his plate while he thinks about the things he has to get done while Henry is asleep. He’s running on caffeine, cuddles, and negativity. And he’s _this_ close to his breaking point. But it’s fine. He’s fine. Henry is more important. He can deal with this alone, just like he’s always done it.

Except for the fact that he can’t lie to Henry for shit.

It all comes out one night. He gets home from a long day of work. His tie is involved in some weird plot to strangle him––slowly––and it’s probably working in tandem with that ass Gerald from the office who drinks all of the coffee and takes Alex’s pens. And his boss is too invested in just getting a paycheck and Alex just wants to help people and he’s fucking _had_ it with this shit. But he’s fine. He’s okay. He’s breathing, he’s got a roof over his head, he’s got a boyfriend who loves him, he’s got a dog who will provide endless cuddles. That should be enough––it really should. He knows that. 

Except for the fact that he wants to crawl out of his skin. 

As soon as he steps in the door and Henry is there in an apron and with flour in his hair and a bowl and a whisk in his hand, Alex fucking _loses_ it. The sight of his beautiful, strong boyfriend looking so cute and happy and domestic makes him start sobbing. He’s on the floor, he’s shaking, and he’s not okay. Henry joins him, setting the bowl aside, and wraps his arms around Alex. He pulls Alex into his chest and strokes his hair, not even asking him to talk about whatever the fuck is going on in his scrambled brain––he just lets Alex cry until he’s ready to talk. 

He’s been moved to the sofa. He didn’t register that happening, but he’s here now and the pillows are soft but his lungs aren’t working. His heart might beat out of his chest. His entire body is shaking. But Henry’s hands are on him and trying to soothe him––trying to help him relax.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Henry tells him, his voice soft and low and delicate like a flower. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. I want to listen and help you in any way that I can, love.”  
Alex takes a staggering breath. His lungs still aren’t working right. “It’s fine.”

Henry’s grip around him tightens, protectively pulling Alex against him. “Love,” he breathes, “it’s not. And that’s okay.”

Alex tries to nod but he’s not sure if the thought of doing it actually makes his body respond. “It’s nothing.”

Henry is silent. 

Alex takes another breath. “You’ve got so much going on––”

“Alex,” Henry says, “it doesn’t matter. Whatever I’m working through or have going on…none of it makes whatever you’re feeling invalid. Darling, _talk_ to me. Please. I want to help you.”

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Alex bursts out, feeling like a dam has been broken. “I don’t remember the last time I actually slept. My mind never shuts up. And I want to help these people but my boss just wants money and I can’t––why can’t I just _help_ them, H? Why can’t I help you? Why can’t I do anything right?”

Henry sighs and Alex feels it in his body––it floats through him and fills him up with oxygen. He breathes again, a bit easier, this time. 

“My love, you can’t save the world,” Henry tells him. Gently. Softly. Purposefully. “I know you want to, but you can’t. You’re setting yourself up for failure. And, even if you don’t see it, you help people everyday. You help me with each breath you take, with each smile you share, and you help every one of your clients get a better life––the life they deserve. You’re a good person. You’re enough. Even if you can’t save the whole world, you’ve…you’ve saved me, at least.”

Alex sniffles and buries his head into Henry’s chest, breathing in his scent. “I love you,” he mumbles against the soft fabric of the apron. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Alex,” Henry promises him. “Your thoughts and emotions are valid. And I’m sorry if my own feelings have been taking up too much space––I should have noticed that you weren’t doing well. And I’m so sorry for not seeing it sooner, but I promise that I’m here and I will listen whenever you want to talk. Even if I can’t make it go away, I hope I can help get some of the weight off your shoulders.”

Alex falls asleep like that––his face pressed into Henry’s chest.

When he wakes up, he’s in his bed and Henry is around him and fast asleep. So Alex pulls out his phone and, instead of working, he makes an appointment with a therapist. He looks over at Henry––as his beautiful, sleeping face––and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

Except for the fact that he’s wrong––it _definitely_ will be.

Because he has support and time and, for the first time, he thinks, acceptance and recognition within himself to ask for help when he needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't love how this turned out, but I thought it was important to address Alex in this, too.
> 
> If someone in your life is struggling, please don't let that make you feel like your thoughts and feelings and mental health aren't important, too. They are important, you are important, and whatever you're feeling is valid. 
> 
> if you ever need to talk, I'm here for you. I may not understand everything, but I promise to listen and remind you that you are wonderful and valid––no matter what. 
> 
> I'm @bibliothesoph on tumblr––I'm here, I'm listening, and you're wonderful.


	6. The Boy Who Was Given A Set of Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here is some trash

When Henry is young, he’s given a set of armor. It’s too big for him––it doesn’t protect him right. No one tells him how to put it on but he manages well enough, still too young to understand what exactly the armor is _for_. It takes a few years for the armor to become necessary and, when it is, it doesn’t work. His foes come from everywhere and all at once––they attack with cannonballs and swords and maces and every weapon known to man until Henry is forced to surrender to them. He’s left bleeding on the battlefield, wounded and crying out for help. The armor swallows him whole––no one can hear him. The helmet weighs him down and makes him more vulnerable. The gauntlets drag on the ground and make him an easy target. No one teaches him how to use it and no one comes to pick him up when he falls down.

When Henry is a bit older, he procures himself a shield. It’s made of the finest wood and carved with the crest of his ancestors. At first, it only splinters. It splinters when he cries out and it splinters when someone hits it with a blade. One day, a rainbow dragon comes––he’s supposed to fight it, they tell him––and incinerates it completely. Just like that, he’s back to his armor alone. It’s worn from battle––the chainmail is beyond repair and pieces of it are missing from too-close calls. But it’s all he’s got. 

When he’s eighteen, he loses his armor, too. He loses it when a foe from another land, one that snuck past all of the castle’s defenses, strikes down the handsome knight that Henry had looked up to his whole life. The foe strikes Henry down and takes his armor like he took the valiant knight. It leaves him wounded and bleeding on the battlefield with nothing left but the skin on his back.

Another foe comes––no one expects this one, either, since he emerges from within the castle walls. Henry fights him to the best of his ability, which isn’t well at all, and soon finds himself on his knees in front of his victorious opponent. The foe removes his golden helmet and, when Henry looks up at him, he sees himself. The foe reaches into Henry’s chest with a sickening smile and holds Henry’s heart in his hands. Henry cries out––he begs for mercy. But the foe simply laughs and crushes Henry’s heart in his hands like it’s nothing. The foe drops the remains onto the bloodied field and squashes it beneath his boots.

One day, a peasant boy comes onto the field. Henry is motionless––still bleeding, still raw. He knows he cannot summon the strength to fight another enemy. But the peasant gets on his knees and stares into Henry’s eyes for a moment before pulling something out of his pocket. It’s a piece of a heart. He holds it out to Henry and offers it to him––he tells Henry that he has enough to share with him. Henry refuses it because he’s not worthy of such a commodity. He tells his men to escort the peasant boy off the field.

It’s not until a few years later that the boy returns to the field, seemingly unafraid of Henry and his men, and gets on his knees once more. This time, he doesn’t offer Henry a piece of a heart. He stays and tends to Henry’s wounds––he wipes the blood from his chest and limps. He wraps Henry’s body in bandages and whispers sacred words to heal his injuries. The boy stays for months and, while he cares for Henry, Henry feels something in his chest. A heart starts to form there once more. It’s smaller than before, he thinks, but it’s _back._ The boy sees it and smiles. He offers Henry lessons on fist-fighting––he gives him a chest plate to guard his newfound heart.

One night, after Henry’s wounds are healed and he’s learned how to fight, the boy produces a piece of a heart from his pocket. He offers it to Henry under the moonlight and begs him to take it. Henry runs away from him, his hands clutching his chest plate to his chest as he runs off into the distance. Just as he attempts to catch his breath, the boy returns with tears in his eyes. He holds up his heart once more––just a piece––and offers it to Henry. But Henry shakes his head and removes his chest plate. He reaches into his chest and produces a piece of his own heart, still growing and raw, and presses into the boy’s chest. In return, the boy gives him a piece of his own.

Henry receives a new commander––one who talks to him and listens and asks him about his own battle strategies. He has none. The commander smiles and hands him a sword––one forged of steel and courage. The commander teaches Henry how to wield the mighty weapon––how to attack his foes when they come for him instead of letting them beat him down. So he takes the sword in his hands and starts swinging. 

He’s rubbish at first. He’s wounded and bleeding and it’s _hard_ , but at least he’s got the sword. And the boy comes in to pick him up when he falls down. The boy takes his face in his hands and kisses Henry senseless. The kisses heal him enough to get him back on his feet. The boy’s encouragements warm his heart and make him more desperate to fight than ever before. 

The commander teaches him battle techniques––she tells him the right way to stand and to hold his sword and shield. How to block. How to attack. Soon enough, he’s hardly ever seriously wounded after a fight with the darkness. Soon enough, he spends less time fighting and more time with the boy. More time with the rest of his heart. And he still has to fight from time to time, of course, but he does it well and with the knowledge that, when he falls, the boy will always be there to pick him back up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at first, I had a completely different piece written. The ending paragraph morphed into this whole knight analogy thing so I thought i would run with that instead.
> 
> this is absolute trash but i'm having a rough time mentally right now so i thought i would at least try to do something productive with this. 
> 
> for any of you fighting darkness, too, just know that i'm here. I'll pick you up when you fall––i'll always listen to you. <3 you are capable and stronger than you know and you're never alone. if you need, me, i'm always here for you. 
> 
> [find me on tumblr](https://bibliothesoph.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk <3


	7. The Henry Fox Dictionary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three words that Henry uses to describe his emotional state.  
> This, as always, deals with themes of depression and is sad (but ends on a happy note) so read with caution.

Bad Day |bad dā|

_Noun._

A rough mental time that lasts roughly twenty-four hours, usually resulting from minor irritants or general negative energies or, sometimes, nothing at all. 

Example: It happens while Alex is brushing his teeth. Henry’s been trying to get to sleep for a while now but his thoughts are keeping him wide awake––he’s running through the next chapters of his book and the meetings he has going on later this week when it all takes a very sudden turn. Without any warning, he starts gasping as he tries to take in air. His body is buzzing and too warm. He kicks the blankets off and maneuvers himself to his back, his eyes wide and staring blankly at the ceiling. He closes his eyes again and clenches his hands into fists as he desperately tries to make the feeling go away.

_Pathetic._

_No one likes you._

_A waste of space._

_A waste of money._

_You don’t deserve to be here_. 

There are tears rolling down his cheeks before he even realizes it. It’s too late, though, because Alex is climbing into bed and sees the salty trails down Henry’s cheeks. 

“Baby,” he whispers. He doesn’t touch Henry––it’s something they’ve talked about. Most of the time, when Henry feels like this, he doesn’t want to be touched. He certainly doesn’t want to be touched unless he’s the one who asks for Alex to wrap him in his arms and hold him close. Alex understands and abides by the rule, though Henry can see Alex try to reach out for him before he remembers himself and pulls his hands back to his side. 

“What do you need?” he asks. 

Henry doesn’t know how to formulate words. His nails dig into his palms as more tears fall. 

_Pathetic._

_Wasteful_. 

“ _Bad Day_?” Alex asks, his voice soft and gentle. 

Henry manages a nod. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I think it is. Could you just…hold me?” 

So Alex does. And he stays with Henry for the next day, bringing him tea that he doesn’t drink and combing soft fingers through his hair when tears fall down his cheeks.

* * *

A Bad Time |ā bad tīm|

_Noun_. 

A seemingly never-ending series of Bad Days that create a feeling of helplessness and despair. 

Example: It’s day four. He’s felt it coming, of course, but that doesn’t mean he actually _expects_ it when it does. It’s been a long few days of sleepless nights and long days. He can get up. He can shower. He can function to some extent. It’s just that, when he sits in meetings, his body is buzzing and his eyes are unfocused. He doesn’t hear a word of whatever people are saying. When he’s in the shower, the water muffles his tears. When he gets up, he wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes he didn’t have to do anything. 

But he does. He gets up and does things because that’s what’s expected of him and that’s what he _has_ to do. He gets up because he doesn’t have a choice or a say in the matter.

It’s day four and he’s miserable. He wants to be somewhere else. Be someone else. Anywhere or anyone else. He wants to be a character in a book––he wants someone to close the book and just let him be nothing for a while. Just until he feels like he can actually be truly alive again. Because he's failing, he thinks, no matter how hard he tries. And it makes him want to cry and fall apart. 

Alex knows, of course, but he also knows there’s nothing he can really do to make any of these feelings go away. So he sits with Henry and rubs his back. He puts food out for him and brings him tea and water. Henry stares at the blank page in front of him, knowing he needs to finish this chapter, when Alex brings another cup of water by and takes the old one away. Before he leaves, Henry grabs his wrist, keeping him here. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

Alex frowns and moves the laptop over, hopping up on the desk and kissing Henry’s hand. “Don’t apologize,” he coos. “Never apologize. I just wish I could help you, sweetheart. It seems––is it a _Bad Time_?”

Henry nods. He fights tears back. 

Alex bites his lip nervously and kisses Henry’s knuckles again. “I know,” he whispers, “but you’re so strong, baby. Even if you don’t feel that way. And you’re not alone, even if you don’t feel that way right now. I’m here for you, H, always.” 

Henry nods and nuzzles into Alex’s touch. 

He doesn’t believe it, of course, but he _hopes_. He _wishes_. He’s gotten through _Bad Times_ before so he knows he’s capable of doing it again, but that doesn’t make it any less hard. But seeing Alex here and knowing that help is just a phone call away…it helps. When he’s ready, he’ll pick himself back up and let Alex hold him. When he’s ready and when this over, he’ll try to find more Good Days to hold onto. And the truth is that these _Bad Times_ take up such a small portion of his life, statistically, but they’re hard. But he knows what they are now and he knows that, someday, there will be a Good Day again. Until then, he’ll hold on. He’ll _try_. 

* * *

Good Day |go͝od dā| 

_Noun._

A rare occurrence but a blessed one.

Example: Henry wakes up to warm arms around him and the smell of Earl Grey in the air. He smiles as his mind starts to wake up, already excited to open his eyes and meet the glorious sight that waits for him when he does. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Alex grins, pressing a kiss to his temple. Alex moves and Henry starts to whine at the loss, but then Alex presents a mug full of steaming tea. Henry hums and sits up a bit to take the mug in his hands, letting the warmth fill his entire body.

Alex runs gentle fingers through Henry’s hair while he sips the hot tea. His eyes flutter of their own accord and his body leans into the touch, eager to feel Alex’s whole body pressed against his own. Alex chuckles that deep, honey laugh that warms Henry like a shot of Jack Daniels, and pulls Henry closer to him. Their legs intertwined under the warm, cozy blankets as Alex continues to run his fingers through Henry’s tousled hair.

“Sleep well?” 

Henry nods and takes a sip of his tea––Alex has made it perfectly. 

“You know,” Alex muses, “it’s Saturday. Neither of us has anything going on.”

Henry moves a bit so he can look into Alex’s dark, warm eyes that are shining in the morning light. “What are you implying, love?” he asks, his voice a near whisper. 

Alex kisses him softly, holding Henry’s jaw in his hands carefully like he thinks Henry might fall apart. Normally, Henry would like it––it would make him feel looked after and taken care of by his love who, somehow, loves him in return and understands him more than anyone has understood him before. Today, though, Henry doesn’t feel breakable at all. He sets his mug down on the bedside table before he turns back to Alex and kisses him deeply. There’s no trace of innocence in this kiss, just desperation and love. 

Alex pulls back after a moment, laughing. 

Henry wraps his arms around him, pulling him back in by the nape of his neck. “It’s okay,” he tells him, meaning every word, “I think today might actually be a G _ood Day_.”

Alex grins and kisses Henry passionately and Henry loses himself in the kiss. 

A G _ood Day_ indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proud of you.  
> You're worthy.  
> I know you may not believe that, but you are.  
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://bibliothesoph.tumblr.com/) if you need someone to talk to. Let's get through our Bad Times together <3


End file.
